There is a woman of middle age, stout and cheerful, in a bright
purple dress. There are two children, a moon-faced man, a
tall, thin man, and others whom you do not notice.

Carelessly they look at a nervous woman sitting in the reception
room talking to a convict. They take no interest in her, no
interest in the convict. To you the prison guide says:

"She comes here to see him as often as the rules allow. She's
his wife. She's been coming for seven years. I tell you,
women get the hard end of it in this world."

Women do indeed get the hard end of it. There are twelve hundred
men in that prison--and every one of them has caused some woman
to suffer. And every one has broken the heart of one other
woman--his mother.

Through a narrow door you travel with your fellow-visitors.

At every step you marvel at the curious indifference of average
humanity to the one interesting thing--their fellow-man.

There are shown to you piles upon piles of loaves of bread--fresh
and brown. The guide says: "We bake every day. Nine hundred
loaves a day."

The stout woman in purple sighs with amazement, the children
gape, the man with the round face has an anxious look--he seems
to be a taxpayer.